


gorecki

by Meskeet



Series: the weary kind [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-16 06:09:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1334905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meskeet/pseuds/Meskeet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The journey from strangers to friends isn't a short one, but they all make it in the end. (Porthos, Aramis, and Athos - and how they came to be the fabled trio).</p><p>Or, alternatively, every fandom needs its own daemon AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	gorecki

**Author's Note:**

> Daemon references can be found at the end of the fic.
> 
> I was absolutely scandalized to find that there was no daemon AU written for this show yet. When Red Tigress pointed out that, hey, the show's been on for a month I cracked and wrote one of my own. Also written for TBB AU challenge, which means there will probably be an accompanying story or two when I get around to it.
> 
> Thanks to the Beta Branch (mostly for not laughing too hard when I actually put this up. but also for the quick edits)

_[Ezria](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1334905#work_endnotes) (One)_

They move easily down the street, for nothing but a ragged sack burdens Porthos. Ezria doesn’t range far, preferring to stay close with the pair of them in such unfamiliar territory. She looks more dog than wolf these days, more docile than he thought her reckless nature could allow.  
  
There’s an empty space on her back and by his side, and they’re both mourning more than a little for it. The Court of Miracles lies behind them, and although Porthos doesn’t let himself glance back, Ezria does. Each glance hurts until they’re left their home so far behind that there’s no point in looking back anymore, and then that hurts more anything else.  
  
He’s never realized how much pack means to her – to him, as well – until now, until they’ve left the relative safety of the only home they’ve ever known.   
  
Porthos hesitates outside the headquarters when they find it, hesitates to make the final step out of the limbo between his old home and what the stranger promised would be a new one. It’s Ezria who makes him take the last step, Ezria who’s now too big and too sturdy to nudge against him without bowling him over. She slides her head under his fingers, lets him run his hand over her newly clipped ears.   
  
“We can find a new pack,” she assures him softly, tail wagging just a little. “We’ll be on our own for a while, that’s all.”  
  
Porthos lets his fingers tighten on his daemon’s fur, lets the shared courage settle in his bones. She’s right, like she always is. Between the two of them, her judgment is apt to be more correct, more readily trusted. Ezria is the one that takes the last step, Ezria is the one to shove the door open and enter the den of the Musketeers. Porthos follows after her, feet treading nimbly over the smooth ground.  
  
When they reach the captain’s desk, it’s not Ezria leading. They reach it in tandem, coming to a halt with synchronization restored, as though they’d practiced the movement a thousand times over.  
  
“Captain,” Porthos says gravely, head inclining just so slightly in greeting.  
  
The man – Treville, yes, that is it – looks up, meets his eyes. His daemon is nowhere in sight, but Porthos can see a telltale shadow under the desk.  
  
“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Treville admits, standing in an easy motion, hand outstretched between equals.  
  
Porthos doesn’t hesitate, but reaches out and meets him halfway. Beside him, Ezria exhales, a slow and measured gesture.  
  
She can feel it too.  _Home,_  something whispers.  
  
 _[Zaina](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1334905#work_endnotes) (Two)_

Three days. That’s how long they go, in the fog of pain and battle, without feeling anything at all. Aramis still can’t remember being found by the search parties, still can’t recall stumbling out of the bushes into the band of shocked Musketeers, still can’t recall anything after Marsac hid him during the initial attack.  
  
He’s told he’ll remember eventually, but doesn’t. Maybe he should be worried, but between the death and pain, he finds it hard to care at all. All he remembers is trying to kill the leader of the band and failing, then his best friend walking away and leaving the squad to die.  
  
Aramis should have died with them.  
  
For three days, Aramis doesn’t say much at all, just lets Zai burrow against his chest and lets his fingers clench into the scruff of her neck.  
  
But then, on the fourth day, when Aramis should have been fit to return to duty but isn’t, he wakes up to find Zai gone.  
  
At first he panics, lunges up from the infirmary bed and hits the floor. He’s aware of someone speaking to him, aware that someone’s hand is on his shoulder, but he’s panicking too much to think about anything but the fact that Zai’s gone.  
  
Then he gets punched in the face and hears the cursing. Aramis lets himself be dropped to the floor, lets himself gather up the first shred of emotion he’s felt since the massacre.  
  
“You’re daemon’s over there,” the man who punched him says, and Aramis follows the finger to see Zai curled up on top of what looks like a monster but I probably just a dog. Zai stirs under Aramis’ gaze, bottle brush tail moving so she can meet his eyes. Then she yawns, all sharp teeth and scorn, before her eyes close once more.   
  
Aramis feels mortified then, feels the first tendrils of shame for his weakness, but the man doesn’t comment at all. “Porthos,” the stranger says by way of introduction. “And that’s Ezria.”  
  
“Is that a dog or a bear?” Aramis asks, picking himself off the ground and wincing as his head spins.  
  
Porthos isn’t offended, not like many of the others Aramis has come across, and he just says, “Is that a fox or a rat?”  
  
Aramis look at motley Zai and finds, for once, that his first impulse isn’t to make Porthos beg for pardon for the slight. Zai delicately makes her way off the dog’s back, as alert as ever that she’s the center of attention, hopping to the ground and then threads her way around his feet.  
  
“I like them,” she says, as though they are the only two in the room. Aramis doesn’t reply, just picks her up and lets her settle on his shoulder. There’s no arguing with Zai when she makes such a decision, so Aramis ignores her pronouncement.  
  
“Aramis,” he tells this Porthos at last. “And Zaina.”  
  
Later, he’ll find out Porthos was part of the rescue party, that he’d spend a week with a black eye from that punch, and that the man is absolutely horrendous when it comes to stitches. But now, what matters is that for the first time in three days, he’s found somewhere to be besides the fog.

_[Adalia](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1334905#work_endnotes)(Three)_

Athos joins the Musketeers because he isn’t sure what else there is to do. He buries his brother, hangs his wife, and walks away. Adalia stays with him the whole time, a quiet shadow that is more likely to crouch under table or in an empty saddle back than to make friendly overtures.  
  
So Adalia hides, and Athos drinks, and when they aren’t doing either, they’re fighting. Sometimes they do both at the same time – like now, apparently, Athos reasons as a body crashes into the chair beside him.  
  
The crowd’s in an ugly mood tonight – bread price is up, the pay down, and poorly paid soldier tend to drink more rather than less – both Athos doesn’t get involved until his ale is swept out of his hands and splatters over his lap and breeches.  
  
He rises slowly and Adalia’s twitching tail goes still, shifting them both from sullen drinking to seething annoyance. Athos listens with one ear to the shouting, and it’s not much work to discover the source of the commotion.  
  
“Say that again!” the outraged shout cuts across the clamor. Adalia’s hearing is better than his, so Athos watches her as she watches the crowd. A sharp bark rings through the clamor, and Athos follows her gaze to its end, barely avoiding groaning.  
  
“We really shouldn’t be surprised,” Adalia hisses, fur bristling along her spine. “Those two cause trouble wherever they go.”  
  
Athos grunts with disgust – a Red Guard leans into what he now recognizes as a Musketeers and says something too low to have a hope of making out. The Musketeer’s face twist into a livid expression, but a restraining hand stops him from striking out.  
  
Aramis and Porthos. Of course.  
  
Athos’ torn between walking out the door and going to their aid (not that they really need it, by the looks of things). His well practiced eye can see the tension boiling over, can see the potential for the brawl to erupt into something more than just a few drunken louts fighting over harsh, ill spoken words.  
  
“Athos,” Adalia says, claws digging into his shoulder.  
  
Athos has never been numbered among the most sensible of men.  
  
Quickly, he strides his way through the simmering mess – the crowd’s gone quieter, grown less focused on their own troubles and more on what looks to be an interesting match – and is barely aware that Adalia’s chosen to remain on his shoulder rather than slip off into the shadows.  
  
“What’s going on?” he asks, voice cutting through the still thickening tension.  
  
Aramis – or maybe it’s Porthos, he’s never been sober enough to actually separate them into individual creatures – spits off to the side, yanking his arm free from his restraining comrade. The Red Guard just looks snide. Porthos reaches down slowly, deliberately, to pick up a rather looking hat that’s been drenched in alcohol.  
  
“Exchanging pleasantries,” the Red Guard says, but the stiff legged coyote daemon at his side days differently. Adalia, on his shoulder, shifts ever so slightly forward and Athos hears a low hiss. “Discussing the news, that’s all. Isn’t it unfortunately how low the Musketeer standards have fallen? Cowards and whore’s so-“  
  
Athos grabs for Aramis, expecting Porthos to do the same, but it’s Porthos’ daemon that lunges forward with a growl, bowling into the comically alarmed coyote and leaving Porthos to go for the guard.  
  
The fight goes relatively downhill from there.  
  
Aramis gives Athos a withering glare when he doesn’t let go, and his daemon – a disturbingly fluffy little thing that had been hidden beneath the dog’s legs – looks straight at them and says, “Are you going to help us or not?”  
  
Aramisi yanks free, goes for a Red Guard that’s about to hit Porthos in the back, and leaves Athos standing there, utterly bewildered.  
  
“It has been a while since we’ve had a good fight,” Adalia points out, the tip of mottled tail brushing his neck. Athos grunts as he steps back from a punch, swaying rather unsteadily on his feet. Adalia tightens her claws, and he can feel her gathering her back legs underneath her. Athos steps sideways and nudges his assailant into a lonely looking Red Guard, adrenaline making the fight seem more tempting by the moment.  
  
“Go on then,” he says with a sigh, and almost staggers under the force of her launching herself loose. She’s not much bigger than a house cat, but her snarls are enough to make even Porthos’ burly daemon blink.  
  
 _Quand le vin est tiré, il faut le boire_ , he reasons with a sigh.  
  
A step forward, a shift of his weight, and suddenly Athos is in the thick of it, in a melee of elbows and fists (how did Aramis manage to make such friends so quickly?) and Athos can’t help but be impressed by the numbers.  
  
He hears Adalia scream – even after years of being settled in this form, it still gives him chills to hear that outraged, all too human noise – and that’s when he starts to feel anger in earnest. Athos follows the sound, barley avoids stepping on a snake, and walks straight into a misshapen tankard being slung around like a hammar.  
  
When Athos opens his eyes, it’s to see a disgustingly cheerful Aramis crouching over him with a needle in hand.  
  
“That was a very poor showing for a king’s Musketeer,” Porthos tells him disapprovingly from out of sight.  
  
Athos can’t help the laugh and he knocks Aramis back with a gentle shove, feeling at his forehead for the source of splitting pain.   
  
“We go to drink, not fight,” Adalia tells them with a huff as Athos sits up, one hand on a row of stitches. Adalia’s sitting, tailed curled over paws, tufted ears twitching with disapproval, just a few feet away on a pile of his gear. She doesn’t look at all disturbed at being the center of attention, or even at breaking a minor taboo by speaking to Porthos.  
  
“Don’t mess up my stitches,” Aramis orders, picking up his hat from the ground and placing it on his head, revealing his daemon. His daemon – a fox, Athos sees now in the better light – ignores the antics and just moves her tail over her eyes.  
  
“Aramis fancies himself a seamstress,” Porthos says in a deceptively mild tone, but Athos can remember the brutal intensity of his dog daemon’s attack. From Aramis’ snort, Athos infers it’s a long running joke between the two. If the two didn’t look so dissimilar, Athos would have named them brothers. The easy camaraderie makes him pause – had he ever been so carefree and joking with his brother?   
  
Athos pushes himself up – he can’t stay comfortable sitting while being surrounded – and almost falls over as his skull initiated armed rebellion. He can’t tell what hurts worse – the hangover or Aramis’ handiwork, but the two combined make a lethal combination. Either way, it’s enough to seat him firmly back down once more.  
  
“Treville’s delighted to hear of our newfound acquaintance,” Porthos, deadpan expression a mite too amused, tells him.  
  
“He seems to think you can keep us out of trouble,” Aramis drops a rapier – Athos’ – into Athos’ lap. “Supposedly, assigning us three to go to sea to guard some sort of treasury jewel will – what were his exact words?”  
  
“Avert potential calamities.”  
  
“So we leave in a half hour.”  
  
Luckily for Athos’ head, the back and forth between the two appears at an end. A few more too cheery phrases later, and the two depart, leaving Athos on – he glances about – the barrack’s floor alone.   
  
"You let them see you,” he tells Adalia.  _Why?_  
  
“We’ve spent too long hiding,” Adalia says, cleaning behind her ear with a paw. “It was getting boring, that’s all. Besides, it’ll be beneficial to practice our fighting skills instead of drinking to pass the time.”  
  
Athos pauses and groans, gauntlet half buckled. If Aramis and Porthos – and Treville too, it seems – remain insisten on dragging him along like some type of team member, he would have a lot less time to drink.  
  
“You planned this,” he accuses.  
  
Adalia purrs, hopping down from the pile of equipment. “I don’t know what you mean,” she deflects.  
  
“You don’t like dogs.”  
  
“Ezria is a daemon,” Adalia huffs before making her way toward the door. “She is no more dog than I am cat.”  
  
Athos can't help but looks at her - gangly, bigger than the largest housecat, built from running and hunting - and shakes his head. Gear on, Athos has no choice but to follow her as she throws in the last word.   
  
"And she claims Porthos is a better fencer than us, so we need to stay and prove them wrong.”  
  
 _“Adalia.”_  
  
But they’ll stay, the both of them, even after they’ve proved Ezia wrong, even after Aramis and Athos learn how poorly Porthos stitches, after he learns that Aramis’ charm is more likely to get him shot than anything else. Because Adalia (curse her haughty, interfering ways) is right. Because her proud words are right – Athos doesn’t mind fighting, doesn’t mind watching someone else’s back even if he could be drinking instead.  
  
(Because Adalia is lonely, and Athos is too).

**Author's Note:**

> References!  
> Zaina: fox (the reference I'm using for her is an [island fox](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/f/f4/Urocyon_littoralis_full_figure.jpg) Zaina means "beautiful". Foxes are often associated with cunning and quick, decisive action.  
> The model I'm using for Ezria (meaning "help") is a [canario](https://encrypted-tbn3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQ3qJRU_79X9uF8-9nsIUvIAS8FKgbgZChTeltl7an4rKiSw1dV) Dogs are associated with traits such as fidelity, loyalty, resourcefulness, intelligence. More specifically, canario's are often used as guard dogs.  
> Adalia - "Noble". I'm using a serval as my reference. Their legs are ridiculously long for their bodies, and they jump high and run fast. However, you'd never find a fully grown serval small enough to balance on a shoulder, as far as I know. So Adalia's a bit of a mongrel, as far as cats go, just like Athos, as a nobleman and a soldier, is a bit of a mongrel as well. Cats are associated with patience, independence, intelligence - but are also secretive.  
> "Quand le vin est tiré, il faut le boire" - Once the first step is taken, there is no going back.


End file.
